Tested
by angharabbit
Summary: The friendship between Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes appears to be ready for a shift, but can they make it through being unexpectedly tested by a sadistic third party?
1. Chapter 1

The sound over the phone line crackled a little, like newspaper spreading.

"So it's happened, then."

It was a statement, but the woman answered the man anyway.

"Yes, sir. How would you like me to proceed?"

"Harry them a little. I have a feeling this is the one, so let's see how they perform. I know you're new, do you feel up the challenge?"

"Yes, sir."

"I need you to be my date to Janine's wedding."

Molly's bedroom door bounced against the stopper and flew back at the tall man filling the frame. He caught it, silhouetted by the daylight now pouring in from the street through the corridor window. A hand over her eyes to protect them and one to her chest to steady herself, she groaned.

"Sherlock, I'm sleeping, I-" she said hoarsely, rubbing the crust from her eyes.

"I know, the triple murder case in Elephant and Castle, don't worry, I haven't slept yet either," he said, practically bouncing as he flung open her blackout curtains. He disappeared for a few seconds and reappeared as if by magic with a cup of tea that he set on her book-crowded nightstand.

"Gaiman is not a coaster," Molly mumbled, grudgingly waking up. "Why do you need to go to Janine's wedding, and why do you need a date, and when is the wedding, and why are you asking me?"

Sherlock's head and hands had disappeared deep into her wardrobe, but even from behind she could tell her was already dressed for a formal event.

"You better be digging around in there for Narnia, Sherlock, because if you're about to pull out a frock you know that I can dispose of your body so that no one will ever find it."

"I need to go because she invited me, and despite the fact that our relationship was, uh-"

"Fictional."

"Only on my side, however, I do consider her a friend, and I would like to…"

"Support her?" She picked up her tea, wiping the moist ring off of the book with the heel of her hand.

"This?" The yellow dress she had worn to John and Mary's wedding popped into view.

"No, it's November, now get out of there."

"This?" A short, slinky black dress with thin straps and a heavy fringe at the bottom was sliding off of the hanger. Molly made a face over her cup.

"That was for a murder mystery fancy dress party, I played a 1920's dancer."

"So no?"

"No!"

"There will be dancing, I imagine that could be appropriate." He plunged back into the wardrobe, flipping through hanger after hanger of atrocious cardis and office trousers.

"Sherlock!" She threw a novel at his back. He finally stopped moving and looked back at her. Her long hair was tied up in a messy loose bun on the top of her head, deep shadows under eyes. "Answer me properly or I'm going back to sleep."

"The wedding is at 2pm, in Totteridge, and you're going because I need a date and I enjoy your company."

"And John wouldn't look fetching on your ar- 2pm? Sherlock, that's in two hours," she said, anxiety creeping into her voice. "And didn't Janine run you through the papers? What if there are press people there?"

Sherlock was silent a moment, standing upright with a hand on his chin evaluating her clothing as a whole.

"Nothing acceptable," he declared, and began tippity-tapping on his phone.

"And it's a 45 minute drive without traffic out of town, we'll never make it in time."

"Then you better get in the shower, hadn't you?" Sherlock replied with a wry smile.

With an inelegant and noisy groan, Molly pushed the covers off of her and crawled out of the lovely, warm bed and stumbled towards the bathroom.

"I hate you," she told him as she passed close enough to smell his aftershave.

"Are those my boxers?"

"You left them under my bed last time you crashed here while I was at work. I confiscated them for pajamas," she called back as she closed the door, relieved he couldn't see her blushing.

The sound of the running water covered the knock at her door, and when she emerged there was a complete outfit on her now-bed made, right down to shoes and undergarments. Everything fit.

"If this is turning into some crap controlling fifty shades business, there had better be some hot bdsm later to make this worth it, Mr Holmes," she mumbled under her breath as she struggled with the zip on the dress. Warm fingers lightly flicked hers off of the tiny metal pull and fastened the dress for her in one smooth motion.

"Your benefactor would certainly approve," he said dryly. Her face went scarlet.

"Where did you come from?"

"Corridor, obviously, the door wasn't shut."

"This dress makes me feel like I'm naked, Sherlock," Molly complained, though the mirror told her the ivy silk frock was modest enough for a church ceremony. She twisted her wet hair into a hasty knot and pinned it into place with a decoration. "Where did you get all this so quickly?"

"From a woman who owes me a lot of favours," he said with a frown, evaluating the discomfort of his friend and weighing it against the clock. _No time._ He could imagine the woman selecting this from an arsenal of clothing, assuming that she knew what he liked. _Damn her._

"I can do the rest in the car," she said, checking her phone, "it will be close enough. I just need to-"

"Toby has food and water for the night in case we're late home," Sherlock said as he hurried her to the flat door.

For the first part of the journey, Molly fussed around packing a few items into a clutch from her usual shoulder bag, applying a conservative amount of lipstick, putting on her favourite necklace with a silver "M" pendant, and fastening the little buckles on the heel strap of her borrowed shoes. For the second, she watched Sherlock drive. Living in town as long as she had, being in the front seat of a car was a novel experience, and she was impressed by how easily he steered, shifted gears, his long legs working the pedals.

"I grew up in the country," he said, noticing her examination while checking his blind spot. "It was either drive or stay home."

"I always thought that you were a London boy."

"I escaped as soon as I could, though Mycroft was already there. It still doesn't feel quite big enough for the both of us."

"Did he get the dress for me tonight? He doesn't seem the warm fuzzy, borrow a cup of sugar or expensive evening wear sort."

Sherlock shifted in his seat, his fingers tightening slightly.

For the first part of the journey, Molly fussed around packing a few items into a clutch from her usual shoulder bag, applying a conservative amount of lipstick, and fastening the little buckles on the heel strap of her borrowed shoes. For the second, she watched Sherlock drive. Living in town as long as she had, being in the front seat of a car was a novel experience, and she was impressed by how easily he steered, shifted gears, his long legs working the pedals.

"I grew up in the country," he said, noticing her examination while checking his blind spot. "It was either drive or stay home."

"I always thought that you were a London boy."

"I escaped as soon as I could, though Mycroft was already there. It still doesn't feel quite big enough for the both of us."

"Did he get the dress for me tonight? He doesn't seem the warm fuzzy, borrow a cup of sugar or expensive evening wear sort?"

Sherlock shifted in his seat, his fingers tightening slightly.

They made it to the church just in time, sliding into the last pew moments before the back doors opened to reveal a progression of matching young women carrying expensive looking spheres of white roses. There was a formal pause, and a woman Molly vaguely remembered from John and Mary's wedding entered down the carpet, her dress a flattering copy of the Duchess of Cornwall's. Turning to face the front, Sherlock examined the groom and nodded to himself slightly. Yes, he'd do well for Janine.

"I'm so glad you could make it, Sherl," Janine greeted him with a kiss of the cheek that was closer to his mouth than her new husband, who next to her in the receiving line, really thought necessary. "Introduce me to your plus one?" Molly had never met such a flirtatious bride, put off by her seductive tone and flirtatious looks. She felt every inch her awkward self next to Sherlock's radiant ex.

"Doctor Molly Hooper," he responded, giving Molly a warm smile. Only slightly reassured, Molly shook hands with Janine, and thanked her for including her.

"I hope you're keeping our boy out of trouble, Dr Hooper," Janine said with a wink. She reached into a discreet pocket in her gown and pulled out a small white card with loopy gold handwriting. "You were late, so you missed the announcement that the reception has been moved. This is the new address."

People in line behind them were beginning to grow impatient trying to make small talk with random ushers and bridesmaids, so Sherlock took the card and they moved along towards the car park.

"We have five hours to kill now until the reception. Anything you would like to do?"

"I imagine napping is out of the question. Do you have any cases you could solve between now and then?"

Sherlock pulled out his phone and scrolled through his email.

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer a nap?" he asked, eyes scanning the screen.

"In this dress? Out of the question."

"Here's one," Sherlock announced, "it's only a 4, should be quick."

"What's the case?" Molly watched the bridal party set up for photos in front of the church.

Sherlock opened her door for her without looking up from his phone, and she climbed in, careful of the borrowed garments as he shut it behind her. He got in and the engine revved, potentially feeding off of his excitement.

"A haunted inn, half hour drive."

Gravel crunched under the tires as they pulled up to a small but well-kept old manor house well off of the main roads. It was sheltered by ancient trees in full autumn colour, and a slightly overrun garden framed the stone structure. A very thin, balding man in a uniform polo shirt met them at the door. His shoes were worn, bits of sock peeking out over the toe, his trousers slightly frayed at the bottom. The uniform shirt had been washed so many times that the black had faded to a green, thread escaping from the embroidered logo.

"Mr Holmes, Madam, I'm so relieved that you're here."

"Tell me about this ghost, Mr Ward," Sherlock said, Molly noting that his voice was deeper and more sophisticated than it had been a few minutes earlier as they had argued the decay rate of human tissue exposed to necrotizing fasciitis in subjects already in an immunocompromised state. She smiled a little to herself, watching him transform into Sherlock Holmes, Detective.

"Ben, please," he shook their hands and ushered them into a long wood-paneled entrance hall, past a fancy dining room complete with a large chandelier, a comfortable library full of intriguing-looking old books, and a delicate ladies tea room full of hot house plants. At the end of the corridor, a woman in a housekeeper's uniform was using an extendable mop to dab at the high wall facing the grand staircase. It was just long enough to reach the words written there in what looked like blood.

" _Die Molly?"_ Molly whispered, turning to Sherlock, who appeared already deep in thought.

"We don't know what it means," Ben said, waving at the letters, "but it won't come off. We don't have anyone named Molly here as staff or guests, but I've got a friend at the records office looking to see if there's some connection at the house to one. We've had some grey lady sightings over the years, but this is the first time we've had guests leave. We're barely booking for the summer now, with the online reviews warning people away."

"Do you have a ladder?" Asked Sherlock. "I'd like to get a sample of the paint used."

"I'll have to get it from the store shed, just a moment." He pulled out a ring of keys and hurried out, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. The housekeeper put down her mop and wiped her forehead.

"Are you alright?" The elderly woman was grey in the face, and Molly helped her to sit on the stairs. "What's your name."

"Emma, dear. I'm alright, it's just the emphysema." She shifted away. "You watch that dress, young lady, I'm all bleach."

"And you're still working? Shouldn't you be resting?"

Emma laughed.

"Have you got enough money in that fancy little purse to pension me off, Miss? I've been working here since I was a girl, and I don't see that changing until they put me in the ground."

The owner returned with a haggard-looking teenager in torn jeans carting a heavy metal ladder, and Sherlock scaled it, scraping flakes into a specimen container he'd retrieved from the car.

"You mentioned a bedroom as well, Mr Ward?"

"Ben, and yes, this way." He led them up the stairs to a grand chamber that smelled strongly of musk and jasmine.

"Sexy ghost," Molly muttered, making Sherlock give her a tiny smile in response. The room was dimly lit with red light, and as they passed through the door there was a chilly breeze that gave Molly goosebumps. _Should have brought my jacket from the car._ The narrow windows were glazed red, large drip marks making the panes rippled.

"It won't come off either?" Sherlock queried, taking a sample with his pocket knife.

"No, and the strangest thing is that besides being freezing, nothing works in here. We've checked the breakers, the outlets, the wiring, but it's like a dead zone. Even mobiles won't work properly."

Intrigued, Sherlock checked his and found it switched completely off.

"Molly?" Hers was the same.

"Your name is Molly?" the innkeeper asked, sniffing, a strange expression on his face.

"Coincidentally, yes," she said calmly.

"What could cause an isolated electrical event like this?" Sherlock frowned to himself. "Can you go check the panel again and let me know if this room shares a breaker with any of the other bedrooms?"

The innkeeper left, and Molly looked around the posh suite, rubbing at her bare arms.

"You would think a place like this would be making enough to support the staff and owners better, ghost or not. Everyone is looking a little shabby."

"They are, aren't they," murmured Sherlock, running his hands along the underside of the bed frame.

The floor boards beneath them suddenly began to crack and heave like they were on a buckling ship.

"Here," Sherlock cried, throwing out his arm to catch Molly before she fell from her high heels. He reeled her in and pulled her onto the bed with him. Dust flew up like a geyser from a hole in the centre of the floor, where Molly had been standing moments before, and there was a deafening crash.

For a moment, Molly lay in Sherlock's arms on the bed, eyes stinging and ears ringing.


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm freezing," was all she said, her head tucked under his chin, his body still positioned to protect her from debris. He rubbed his hands on her arms, trying to induce some warmth.

"So here's a question," he said quietly, not letting her go quite yet. "How did they keep the air conditioning unit under the bed running considering they have a homemade EMP in the night stand. Ah yes, they activated the EMP just in time for our arrival, they must have run the cold air in after I texted that I was coming to investigate. So this was a show for us, a show to confirm that the building was haunted. Owner has a cocaine problem, culprit was housekeeper. Hotel sold off, long time family employee may get a decent pension and retirement. Blood on wall written with same mop rod as one used to try to remove it."

Molly could hear Sherlock's voice rumbling through his throat and chest, her ear tucked against the fine grain of his shirt.

"Does that mean they just brought down the chandelier for our benefit?"

"Potentially. Let's go see if anyone was under it."

He released her, pretending he didn't notice how the silk slid over her body as she got to her knees over him to crawl to the safe end of the bed where the floor was intact. He gave her a hand until they were back into the corridor, and she was grateful for the extra heat.

The innkeeper was at the bottom of the stairs, covered in dust and looking dismayed.

"It just fell," he said, "look at this, we'll have to close. There can't really be ghosts here, can there?"

"Where is Emma, Ben?" Molly asked, her voice steadier than she felt. With a last squeeze of her hand, Sherlock shifted out of his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

The police arrived shortly, arrests were made, both the housekeeper and her grandson, the maintenance worker. Mr Ward pressed several hundred pound notes into Molly's hands, his gratitude for saving the reputation of his inn pouring out into offers of free stays whenever they liked. They tried to refuse, but when she handed them back he took her small purse and forced them in.

Outside, Lestrade was leaning against the wall on his mobile, rubbing at his mouth as if he would like to be smoking.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be back in the office shortly, talk to you later," he said into his phone, motioning the pair exiting the inn to stop. He hung up, and walked over, hands in pockets.

"Are the two of you alright?"

"What are you doing all the way out here, Greg?" Molly asked, dusting off Sherlock and then his jacket. He reached for her as if to return the favour, but hesitated, not sure how one went about doing that on a close fitting garment. He carefully brushed off her back and shoulders, mumbling that she could get the rest, and not appreciating the appreciative look Lestrade was giving her.

"They call me when Sherlock leaves town, didn't you know? You look very nice, are they two of you on a crime date or something?"

"I'm Sherlock's plus one to a friend's wedding, we were filling time between the ceremony and the dance." She checked her earrings to make sure that they were still in.

"Huh," Lestrade said, nodding. "So you have other friends, Sherlock?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him.

"We're fine, Glen, go back to your traffic tickets."

Sherlock took off for the car, jacket flung over his shoulder, leaving Molly to say goodbye. He already had the engine started when she got in. "Find a restaurant, or eat the snacks at the reception?"

"I'm probably fine for just snacking, if you are. We can always go for a late dinner when we get back into town." She glanced at her hair in the passenger side vanity mirror. "Urgh, I look like an extra in _The Scarlet Pimpernel_." Her bun had loosened, the decoration now perched on top of her hair, all of which had been powdered white with dust. She took it down, stacking the pins in the ashtray of the vehicle. It was still slightly damp from her shower, and as she tidied it up with her tiny purse brush it filled the car with the smell of jasmine and musk, of Sherlock's aftershave and vanilla shampoo.

"Can you pass me my suit jacket?" Sherlock asked stiffly. She reached into the back seat and pulled it forward. He took it and threw it across his lap.

"Are you cold?" She reached for the heat controls. The October day had become colder as the sun set.

"I'll be fine." He stopped her, still looking at the road. There was perspiration forming on his face.

 _Aconite, belladonna, cyanide, dimethylmercury…_ Sherlock recited to himself, willing himself into complete control of his body.

"Do you think it would look okay just to leave it down?" She asked, unable to see much in the tiny flap mirror. He glanced over and regretted it. She was shaking it back out after trying various twists and knits.

"It looks perfectly adequate."

She sighed.

"I just don't want you to be embarrassed with me on your arm in front of your ex-partner." She slid the decoration back into the front, just pinning back enough to make it stay.

 _Hemlock, hemlock would be a good way to go. Like Socrates._

"You don't have to please anyone, Molly, just be yourself. That's why you're here."

She beamed.

"That's a lovely thing to say, thank you."

He fished the reception card from Janine out of his trouser pocket with one hand and passed it to Molly.

"Can you put this address in your mobile's GPS?"

When they arrived the hall had a full car park, but the décor was understated and the lighting was poor now that night had fallen.

Straightening themselves other up on the elegant whitewashed portico, Molly took a moment to admire once again what a handsome man Sherlock was, accentuated as always by his impeccable wardrobe. She remembered his arms around her, their hearts pounding, as the floor gave away, and walked ahead so he wouldn't see her blush. Her hair was cascaded and coiling around her, wild and gingery against the green silk. _Hemlock. Hemlock. Hemlock. Socrates. Wrinkled old men in revealing togas._ Thank goodness she was walking ahead so she wouldn't see.

Five minutes later they exited, Sherlock gripping Molly's elbow as he pulled her along beside him. Her face was covered with a hand, and he could only hear snorting gasps emerging.

"Are you laughing or crying," he asked, his jaw so tight it made the question a hiss.

"Laughing," she responded, overcome once again by giggles. He guided her back to the car, to the side that blocked the view of the building. He threw both arms in the air.

"What did I even just see?"

"Well, Mr Holmes, it appears that your vindictive ex sent you to a cosplay orgy that was heavily attended by fans of John's blog, instead of her wedding reception."

He sputtered for awhile, started and abandoned sentences about people mocking his sexuality, and how it wasn't even his real hat. Molly composed herself, and opened the car door for him. He fell into the driver's seat and put his head down on the wheel.

"Well, I suppose we're at loose ends for the night now. Did you just want to head home, or do you need a drink after seeing several hundred of your favourite fictional characters doing dirty things to each other?"

"They weren't all fictional, some of them were me," he growled.

"What can I say, who wouldn't want to be part of an orgy with the incredibly intelligent and sexy Sherlock Holmes," she teased. She looked over to see if she had made him smile, but he was now gazing back at her with an intense fire.

"I give up," he murmured, leaning over to kiss her. He caught up her mouth, confidently tasting her. Shivering slightly, she kissed him back, resting a hand on the hot skin of his neck and jaw.

Sherlock pulled her closer until she slid from her seat to his, tasting of peppermint and old coffee, his lips soft and warm on her mouth and throat. She straddled him, the wheel in her back until he reached down and adjusted everything to give her more room. A day's anxiety, fear, sexual tension came to the surface, and Molly transmuted it into lust. His hands were sliding up and down the dress, stopping just short of her breasts. He let his fingertips trail down the silk between them, touching the "M" necklace.

"Is this what you want," she breathed against his cheek, taking his hand and placing it over the cup of her bra. She gently ground her bottom down against him, feeling her fabric ride up.

"God yes," he gasped, slipping his hands under her skirt to strip her dress off and toss it onto the passenger seat. She raised her arms to let it slip over her head, and when she brought them down it was to capture his hands and pin them to the headrest.

"What is it you want?" He asked after a long, dominating kiss. His grip on rationality was fading while she unbuttoned his shirt and trousers, but he knew enough to make sure the situation was consensual.

She made her desires known with a series of descriptions and demonstrations, culminating with him gripping her hard to his body while she rode out their mutual orgasm. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of her on top of him, against him, feeling her ripple and squeeze around him, watching the way her body moved, soft breasts rocking against his muscle, and hair falling like a waterfall on his knees. He pulled her down for a tender kiss, holding her to his chest where she could feel their hearts pounding.

With her help, he disengaged and she carefully climbed off of him to return to the other side of the car.

Molly leant back in her seat, pulling her tangled hair into loose braid and securing it with a rubber band she found in the glove box. She couldn't tidy up any further until they found a washroom.

She had no idea what to say, and from his unusual silence, neither did he.

He reached over and took her hand. Staring steadily into her eyes, hoping she was understanding the emotions that he didn't, he kissed her palm. She smiled gently.

"Fish and chips?"

"God, yes," he breathed, turning the key in the ignition.

"Have you seen my necklace? The chain must have broken." She looked around best she could in the dark car, but she knew with a blush that it would probably be over on the driver's side.

"We'll have a good look when we get under the street lights in town," he said, pulling onto the road.

They drove a few kilometres in quiet.

"Front seat of a car," he murmured to himself. "Not how I pictured it."

"Oh? And what were you picturing?" She asked lightly.

"My first time."

 _Oh. Holy. Shit._

"Sherlock, that was your _very_ first time?"

He made an uh-huh noise of assent.

"Well, wow. You were, wow."

There was an awkward pause.

"Sherlock, were you waiting for something? Did I just spoil-"

"No," he interjected, "no, Molly, no. What I was waiting for was not a romantic setting or a location that wasn't the car park of a cosplay orgy. What I was waiting for was the right person, and in that respect I have absolutely no regrets."

"Likewise, Mr Holmes." She felt radiant. "So, follow up question?"

He nodded, changing lanes.

"Did you enjoy it?"

She was fairly certain that even though he didn't answer verbally, the unguarded expression on his face was assurance enough. That, and the general stickiness she felt. The traffic become heavier and the roads wider as they got deeper into the city, and Molly noticed Sherlock's face tightening.

"Are you alright, do you need to pull over?" She asked.

"I'm sorry, I think I may for a moment." He started heading for a side street. "Is it normal after intercourse to experience a localized burning sensation anywhere?"

Furrowing her brow, she reviewed their shared experience for times he may have encountered anything sharp or hazardous.

"No, not really. If you had an STI it may burn quite some time from now as it became symptomatic, but you wouldn't have contracted anything from me. Could be a latex allergy, but we, um, just relied on my birth control."

 _Complications. Complications everywhere. Nearly 40 years of never having to worry about avoiding unwanted pregnancy, communicable diseases- shitfuckdamn that hurts._

He stopped the car in front of a hobby shop that was closed for the night and unbuckled his seat belt. Molly switched on the cabin light.

"What's going on?"

"I'm being burnt!"


	3. Chapter 3

A nauseating smell of chemicals and burnt flesh was filling the vehicle, and it got stronger as he worked out of his shirt. Her necklace chain fell out of the white cotton folds, but the pendant was stuck to the side of his abdomen, buried in his blistering and bleeding "M" shaped wound.

"Oh my god, Sherlock. Do you have a first aid it?"

"It's in my bag in the back," he said, catching his breath.

Molly scrambled over her seat to fetch the bag, found the little kit, and pulled out supplies. With gloves and tweezers she carefully pried the pendant out of his side, trying not to take too much of the damaged skin around it. She put it in one of his sample jars to test later.

"I'm sorry, this is going to hurt," she apologized, preparing an alcohol wipe to clean the wound. She braced herself while he nodded. "By the way," she started, hoping to distract him, "you have a much sexier body than Jim Moriarty."

"Wha- ahhhhh," he hissed, squeezing her arm. She removed the pad and he relaxed, slumping back. "You're a bad woman." Using her mobile's flashlight app, she inspected the wound.

"This looks awful," she said calmly, "but at least it's small. Do you have a silver allergy?"

"No, and it must have been in there for at least half an hour before it began to burn. I was perspiring, and I felt something trickle down there, like wax, and then the chemical reaction began."

Molly took his shirt from behind him and inspected it with the flashlight. There was a film stuck to the cotton.

"Yes, there's something. It touched my fingers and didn't burn, so it's probably safe to put your shirt back on once you're bandaged up."

They finished patching him up, he dressed, and they found a restaurant. Molly cleaned herself up in the cramped loo while their food was cooking, starting to feel her lack of sleep. In the quiet of the room, a flickering bare bulb above her, she tried to start to process her day. There was a knock on the flimsy door.

"You almost done in there? Only I gotta pee," cried a young woman's voice.

They ate, conversation stilted by their personal introspection. Dropping the car off at the car share lot, Sherlock gathered up his bag from the back while Molly inspected the front for embarrassing mess.

"I'll walk you home," he said, shrugging into the strap of the messenger bag, and tentatively taking her hand.

"You're welcome to stay," she replied, butterflies forming in her stomach. She felt 16 years old and on her first date.

"I will, thank you."

They were quiet as they passed a crowd of tourists on a corner, who crossed the street as a group snapping photos.

"Do you have any personal enemies, Molly?" Sherlock asked gently.

"What? No, not that I know of. Ex-boyfriends. And Jim is dead, right? Why do you ask?"

"Today, it felt like a massive set up. The writing on the wall at the motel would have been a massive coincidence. Someone took a lot of trouble to lure me there, and the email arrived after I invited you out with me for the day. Where would the housekeeper and her grandson have come by a homemade EMP? Has anyone else touched that necklace?"

"No, I took it from my jewelry box as usual, it hasn't been moved since last time I wore it."

"If you had been wearing it when that substance melted off, this would have branded you here," he placed a finger softly on the hollow between her clavicles. "It would have gone straight through to the bone. You'd have that scar the rest of your life." Molly shuddered, a chill cutting through her jacket.

"As it is, you may have an _M_ branded into your side the rest of your days."

"There are worse things," he said dryly, "if anyone asks I'll tell them it's _M_ for _Molly_. A souvenir of my deflowering."

"I claimed the maidenhead of London's greatest detective in a Toyota," Molly laughed, walking taller.

"Could it all have been coincidence?" He mulled, serious again. "It seems unlikely that you could have accidentally exposed that pendant to a highly corrosive chemical and then what, accidentally coated it in a thin layer of wax that could dissolve at an elevated body temperature or perspiration? But that means that someone must have accessed that necklace in its usual location, therefore your flat."

"Could it have been the ghost of the inn?" She asked with a smile, trying not to feel anxious about the unsettling events of the day.

"Someone may be trying to send you a message, though the email about the inn came to me, so are they trying to send me a message about you?" He went on, his eyes focused inward, making hand gestures with her hand still in his.

He was no further ahead in his theorizing, which had ranged from everything from a former partner of Magnussen out for revenge to Irene Adler's twisted sense of humour.

"Come on," she said, releasing his him to unlock her flat door, "leave it for tonight." Toby greeted them with a mrow from his cat bed in the corner, half under a soft blanket in the light of the small lamp Sherlock had left on for him. "I'll even let you check under the bed." She dropped her bag on a chair by the door and walked into the dark bedroom, removing her earrings. He followed her, stopping at the door.

For the second time that day he leaned in the frame, looking at her, humming with energy. He seemed taller than usual, his tie loose, his shirt unbuttoned at the top. She once again felt naked in the silky green dress.

"Do people generally assume that once they've engaged in sexual activities, they now have some sort of understanding together on the matter?" His voice was low, the tone dark.

"I think they generally come to an arrangement that suits them, something mutually beneficial," she said carefully. "I don't know that we need to set any terms immediately, if you're concerned."

"Oh, I'm not concerned about that," he said with a smile she mentally classified as predatory. "I'm more concerned about my inability to share."

 _With anyone else, that would have been such a cheesy or creepy line_ , Molly thought.

"I thought I claimed you pretty thoroughly earlier," she responded cheekily. "I suppose it's only fair."

He swooped in and kissed her, pushing her backwards onto the bed.

"How did you claim me, Doctor Hooper?" He said from above her, kissing her over and over while he undressed her, on her throat, her breasts, her naval, her thighs, her ankles.

"I believe," she whispered with her eyes closed, "that i put your arms up like this," she crossed her wrists over her pillow, "and showed you what for."

"Mmm, so you did." He removed his neck tie and looped it around her wrists, then fastened it to the headboard. "Not too tight, I hope? Good? Good." The last _good_ was slightly muffled by the location of his mouth, and drowned out by Molly's happy moans. She bucked and pulled as he licked and teased and he thought she might be close to finishing when she cried out.

"I have all night to show you _what for_ , as you put it," he said, shimmying out of his trousers. "And we have a lot of missed time to catch up on."

"I need your permission for something, Molly," Sherlock asked the next morning, his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

"I think it'll fall off we do it again right now, you great pervert," she said sleepily.

"That's your medical opinion, hm?" He said wryly, ignoring the fact that was feeling a bit raw. "I'd like to talk over everything with John and get his take on everything that happened yesterday, but it mean alluding to our, uh-"

"Car fucking," she said sweetly, watching him blush from under her lashes. "No, that makes sense. You couldn't really explain how my necklace ended up down your shirt otherwise. Just don't embarrass me."

"Good rule for life," he commented, rolling over to kiss her. "I'll have him meet me at the lab."

"I've got a dinner date with my friends, text me if you want to come over tonight, otherwise I'll assume you're on a case or home for the night."

"Did you want to come to Baker Street tonight?" He sounded almost shy. She pursed her lips a moment, picking words.

"That's your inner sanctum, I feel like you may want a space to yourself as we explore what, um this," she waved her hand between them, "is. What if we stuck to my flat for a while? You've spent so much time here over the past few years when you've been hiding or been dead that it already feels like neutral ground."

"The offer stands," he said simply, with one last kiss before rolling out of the bed to dress in yesterday's clothes. He cringed slightly as the skin around his burn tautened. "I'll change the dressing after I shower."

"I'm so sorry about that, Sherlock," Molly said, feeling guilty that he was hurt on something meant for her.

"Just keep yourself out of trouble today, Doctor Hooper." He pulled on his suit jacket, and stuffed his tie in his pocket. "I'll see you tonight."

It was late afternoon when Molly rose, caught up on sleep after her marathon shifts at the lab and the previous day and night's adventures with Sherlock. In the shower she debated how much to tell her friends at dinner, settling on perhaps just a hint that she was beginning to see someone (no names) but that things weren't in a place she was comfortable labelling. They'd likely press her for details, she picked a few to share that wouldn't give away her lover's identity, but she didn't want to say anything that would give away too much.

She felt like, for all Sherlock's confidence, there was so much in the air about them. The last thing she wanted to do was rush or corner him, and she had a fragile little hope that just maybe this could turn into a committed, long-term relationship. She detangled her hair in the shower, working away at the bird's nest their activities had caused.

 _Let's be honest, I'm still in love him._ She pulled on jeans, shirt and a jumper, enjoying how secure she felt in the layers of wool, cotton and denim after a day in silk and a night in nothing. _He's got to be feeling as vulnerable as I do. Our relationship is irrevocably changed, but I don't think even he knows how he feels. I need to be careful not to push. He's usually pretty good at communicating where he's at once he knows. We'll just have to be gentle with each other, and open._

She drifted around her kitchen, making tea. There was an unusually loud snapping noise as she pressed the on switch of the electric kettle, and a crackle that ran up the cord to the outlet. A shower of sparks flew from the wall, and a flash of what moved like lightening ran along the backsplash and into the living area. An "L" shaped area in the centre of her throw rug caught with a whoosh, bursting into flame like it had been soaked in gasoline.

Molly stood only a second, watching the fire start to catch the rest of the carpet, before the smoke alarm bought her back from her shock. Her mobile was in her back pocket, she looked around for Toby but realized that she had not seen him since she awoke. His food was untouched in the dish. Smoke and heat was already making it difficult to breath. She grabbed a tea towel and held it to her face as she dashed for the door. The fire was already moving to block her path, licking up the wallpaper. She heard the window break, and in the rush of oxygen the fire turned into an inferno. She scooped her bag off of the chair by the door as she exited, running into the hall and closing her flat door behind her. The knob was already hot.

There was a pull station at the end of the hall, but the sound of her kitchen alarm had brought other tenants into the corridor.

"Evacuate," she tried to shout, coughing. She couldn't catch her breath, and had to stop, but little Mr Wiggins from next door repeated her cry and pulled the alarm for her. With an arm around her shoulders, he helped her down the stairs, followed by the rest of the floor.

"I couldn't find Toby," she told him, not sure if the tears starting to fall were for her cat, from smoke or from shock.

At the lab, Sherlock was receiving several messages simultaneously. His mobile, however, was charging on Molly's desk.

John had a strange expression on his face, like he would like to be happy, but he was deeply worried.

"What are your intentions towards Molly, Sherlock?"

"She's not your daughter, John," Sherlock said warily into his microscope. Bits of his burnt flesh were under the microscope, still attached to the silver pendant. This was not a discussion he wanted to have right now.

"She doesn't need to be my daughter for me to be concerned with her welfare."

"Please give me some credit, I have no intention of harming her."

"Intentions aren't enough. She's in love with you, Sherlock, you know that." John pulled another file from the stack from his briefcase and reviewed it, signing the bottom.

"I'm not indifferent to her, you know. She's always liked me, even when I'm unlikable to her. She rescued me from Moriarty when he could have killed me. I'd like to believe that she's teaching me to be a better man. I'd go to great lengths to make sure nothing hurt her, including myself."

John rubbed at his jaw, examining his friend like a specimen.

"Well, I can't see the _Die Molly_ and the floor collapsing beneath her at the 'haunted' inn, along with the burning necklace, all being coincidence. But if it's related, or a message, who? And why?"

"I've checked with my sources, and there hasn't been any movement from any of the usual enemies."

"What about your arch-enemy? Have you mentioned this to Mycroft?" John's mobile buzzed and he scanned a message from Mary.

"He won't understand my interest in her."

"I think it's time to call your brother, Sherlock. There's been a massive fire at Molly's flat. She's here at Bart's, being treated for smoke inhalation and minor burns."


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock scooped up his mobile, seeing messages from Wiggins, Lestrade, Mary, and thankfully Molly herself, all notifying him of the fire, and one voicemail from his brother, which he ignored.

He responded to them rapid fire, blowing through the doors of the lab leaving John to catch up.

Information came back quickly.

MESSAGE FROM WIGGINS: no sign of cat, continuing search

MESSAGE FROM MARY: Buying clothes & necessities. Ours or Baker Street?

MESSAGE FROM LESTRADE: Evidence pointing to arson

MESSAGE FROM MYCROFT HOLMES: Call me immediately

Sherlock found the right room in the hospital, still texting, John only a few steps behind. Lestrade was already there, helping Molly sit forward as her doctor listened to her lungs through her back. Another officer, a tall iron-haired woman in a Met uniform, had her laptop out on the bedside table, and was writing down Molly's statement as she slowly got it out.

"It was shaped like a capital letter L, right in the middle of the carpet, and then the fire spread from there." Her voice was hoarse, and there was a strong-smelling sheen of oily smoke residue and debris on her hair and skin.

"Had you smelled or seen anything unusual in the area before that?"

"No, nothing. Whatever they used I didn't notice it at all until the fire."

"Where there any signs of a break in?"

"No, nothing. Except," she bit her lip. To his discomfort, Sherlock noticed that it was still a little swollen from the previous night. "It's strange, but it looks like at some point someone broke in and tampered with a piece of my jewelry. I don't know how long it had been like that, we noticed it last night, but I used the kettle two days ago."

Her eyes were starting to shine, rimmed with red. Sherlock could see the tracks previous tears had made.

"Alright, I'll let contact if there's anything more we need, but that should be it for now," Greg said, ushering his colleague out. The doctor made a note on her clip board and left without meeting Sherlock's eyes. She pulled the curtain closed, giving them some privacy. John stayed outside, he could hear a conversation starting with Lestrade.

MESSAGE FROM MYCROFT HOLMES: I'm serious. Call me now. This is about your doctor.

Sherlock felt the vibration in his pocket, unable to look away from the woman on the bed. She looked smaller than usual, balled up in blankets and a borrowed set of scrubs a co-worker had brought her from supplies.

"Are you hurt?" He asked, not sure what else to say. The whole world felt like it was heavy in his throat, weighing him down.

"I don't feel safe," she whispered, wiping tears with the back of her hand. Her nose was beginning to run. He found a box of tissue and handed her several. "All I did was turn on my kettle. That's it. Greg said that it was arson, that someone meant to burn my flat down triggered by my tea kettle."

He nodded, taking her wet tissues and throwing them into the bin in the corner as she finished with them.

"Why is this happening? The Molly message at the inn, the M necklace, the L fire on my carpet? Who could be doing this?"

"I don't know," he said simply, hating it. "Let me take you home, it'll be safe there. Lestrade has a team going over Baker Street as we speak to check it over. Once I'm sure you're safe, I'm on the case, Molly Hooper."

"I think I'd just like to cry a but first," she said, and he could see what little composure she still had crumbling. She held out her arms to him. He sat on the bed and pulled her onto his lap, and curled up against him she let out all her fear and frustration. It was less uncomfortable than he had imagined, and he stroked her back and said what must have been the right things. When she had worked the worst of it out, she let him take her in a cab back to his flat.

They ran two baths, the first a grey sooty one where they scrubbed evidence of the fire off of her with dish soap, the second scented with lavender from Mrs Hudson accompanied by a bottle of wine.

"Thank you for combing my hair," Molly said, dozing with her head on the back of the clawfoot tub. She was drinking her third glass of riesling from a coffee mug, it being the only clean vessel. Sherlock sat on the floor in his shirt sleeves with a new brush that had been in the bag Mary had dropped off shortly after their arrival. He kissed her sleepy, upside down forehead and worked at the last of the knots.

"So much for your decision not to disturb my inner sanctum," he teased. "You're about to be privy to all my eccentricities."

"You mean up until now you've been pretending to be normal?" She said wryly. "Sherlock, last week you left a bag of moody spleens in my dishwasher."

"Could have been Toby," he said with a smile, "let's not automatically blame that on me."

Her face fell, he knew he's said the wrong thing.

"Do you think he died in the fire?"

"I've got my second-best man on it," he said, trying to sound confident.

"This day can't get any worse," she said mournfully into her mug. "Anything new from him?"

Sherlock checked his phone, which was once again alight with texts.

MESSAGE FROM UNKNOWN SENDER: I'm disappointed. Apparently my dress can do for your delicious little pathologist what I've failed to do for years. I hope you enjoyed your dinner.

 _I thought we had agreed that she was to stop watching me._

Sherlock frowned at his mobile, ignoring the woman's and finally seeing Mycroft's message.

Before he could dial Mycroft's number, he heard his brother's distinctive steps on the stairs.

"That's my brother, come out when you're ready. My robe is on the back of the door there, there are towels in the cupboard." He gave her another kiss on the forehead, and dashed out.

"Well, little brother, you're back in the news it seems," was Mycroft's greeting.

He sat in Sherlock's chair and opened his briefcase and pulled out a brightly coloured tabloid with the headline "Sex Fiend Sleuth At It Again In Orgy Car Park!" splashed across the front.

Sherlock's stomach did a flip. There on the cover was a photo of his tryst with Molly in the Toyota, both faces clearly recognizable. He sat in John's chair, for once not distracted by how the chair sunk beneath him.

"It's a good shot," he said, jaw tightening. _Molly isn't going to like this._

 _"_ Yes, Doctor Hooper seems to be quite flexible."

"Can you do anything about it? This is dated tomorrow."

"Unfortunately, I can't." He cut off Sherlock's protest with a wave of his umbrella. "As the story is true. Unless you're saying that isn't you and the good doctor fornicating in a car park at," he consulted the story on page seven, "the Third Annual Cosplay Cum-Play?"

He shook his head.

"Have you no dignity?"

Sherlock heard the creak of the washroom door, and knew Molly was in the corridor.

"What can I say, when you find the right one you can't always wait for the right time."

"Am I to start picking pansies for your bridal bouquet?"

"No need to be an ass, Mycroft, just because you don't understand these things. What can be done?"

"I can try to lean on the other papers so they can't purchase the story from _The Big L_ , but I can't guarantee anything. They're well within their right to publish it, you were in a public space. This could be everywhere tomorrow. Doctor Hooper may want to consider some personal leave from the hospital until it dies down."

"I'm already on personal leave from the fire," Molly said, entering the conversation as she tied shut a much-too-long blue housecoat. The smell of it was familiar and comforting, something she needed. "Please let me see, Mr Holmes."

Her tone was respectful, and though he didn't show it, he was slightly taken aback that she responded to his derisive comments as politely as she had.

She took the tabloid.

" _The Big L_? So we have an _M,_ and now two _L_ s? Everything seems to be letters lately."

Mycroft and Sherlock made eye contact from across the sitting area.

"Oh?" Mycroft said. Sherlock explained their past couple of days, and the trouble that seemed to be following Molly. He pulled up his shirt and showed him the small but nasty chemical burn.

"You need a dressing change," said Molly, heading off to find the first aid supplies in the bathroom. Sherlock watched her exit, even now finding himself growing warm at the movement of her body under his dressing gown as she walked down the corridor.

"Focus, Sherlock, I'm sure she'll put you through your paces once I'm gone. Do you have any leads?"

"None, I've been kept running from thing to thing."

"I'll see what I can do." Mycroft rose and picked up his briefcase. "Especially is there is a chance your pathologist will be sharing my family name in future."

"Dignified as always, Mycroft."

"As always," he repeated as he left, Sherlock closing and locking the door behind him. He found Molly still holding the gauze and tape, standing in his bedroom. Mary had forgotten to buy her pyjamas, so she was dressed in boxers and an old t-shirt that hung long on her. She was staring at the tabloid centre spread, of zoomed photos of the two of them, the vehicle, the venue.

"I suppose if anything good has to come out of having your privacy absolutely violated, it would be that it's nice to have souvenirs of our first time."

"You're taking this well," he said cautiously, ready for more tears.

"I have so little left to lose at the moment."

He took the bandaging from her hands and placed it on his bedside table.

"Come here," he said quietly, wrapping her in a tight embrace. "I think we need to consider the fact that all this began when I indicated that I wished to spend time with you in a manner that could be construed as romantic."

"That's logical," she said calmly, her eyes closed against his chest, gripping his shirt with both hands like a baby monkey.

"I think we may also need to consider, then, whether you would be safer away from me while I figure this out."

Molly was quiet for a moment. Part of her felt that this was his inevitable way of detaching himself from her, that he was realizing that he didn't want to pursue was a relationship with her. _No, I need to be more confident. There's been no indication that it's our relationship he's trying to escape._

"I do have a purse full of cash and an unlimited free stay at an inn just outside of the city."

"You do," he said, already wishing he hadn't mentioned it. _Please stay with me._

"It's almost too neat," she said wistfully. "Mr Ward providing me with a hide out."

"Mm-hm," he agreed, thinking it over. "Do you get the feeling we've been on rails, that someone has been plotting our course the past couple of days?"

"As in someone planned each of these events, expecting us to behave in a certain manner?"

He sat her down on the bed while he paced.

"It _is_ too neat, you having the cash and the place to stay. Mary brought you clothes and toiletries because of the fire, you wouldn't even need to pack. And with Toby missing, there would be nothing to keep you here."

"What are you saying? That someone _wants_ me at that inn tonight?"

" _Die Molly,_ " Sherlock said, thinking of the bloody words on the wall.

"Then I'm not going anywhere," she said with resolve. "I hope you don't mind company, because nothing it getting me out of this flat until all this absurdity stops. I can't believe this. Who would be willing to burn down my flat to send a message?"

"My sources have found nothing," Sherlock said, frustration building. He had felt this powerless to protect his loved ones before, and it was a terrible feeling to relive. _I have killed to keep them safe_ , he thought remorselessly, _and I would do it again._

He spent several hours playing his violin, thinking, while Molly drank a pot of tea. She went to bed, more mentally tired than physically, and lay in the dark. It wasn't long before she was back up, finishing off the bottle of wine, curled up in his chair staring at the blank screen of the TV.

"Every time I close my eyes I see fire," she said, knowing he could still hear her even though he didn't stop playing. "Or the floor falls away. Or suddenly there are photographers with long cameras looking in through the window."

She drained the mug.

"Want to go relive page six? There's a great shot of when you-"

Sherlock's bow skipped and made a horrible shrieking noise. His violin hung loosely from his hand as he faced the window, his back to her. She smiled a little, getting up and putting the mug in the sink.

As she could have predicted, he followed her into the bedroom. Though they were alone in the flat, they were quiet as they focused on each other's needs. He slid in between her legs and began stroking her until she could think of nothing else, just his fingers slick, deeper and deeper inside. She panted, smoke still making her breath short. Suddenly he stopped, showing something small and circular to her in the dim light coming in from the street.

"What's this? It was in you?"

"What?" She sighed. "Oh, it's my birth control. Put it back, it needs to stay there to work."

"I didn't feel it before," he said, confused. He promptly returned the device and applied his mouth to the area.

"You're not supposed to- oh dear god that feels amazing."

He smiled against her.

"I'm glad you like it," he rumbled.

"I'm not a huge fan of the ring. I've only used it a few months and it's been killing my sex drive," she gasped out three or four words at a time.

"I meant I'm glad you like this," he said, redoubling his efforts until she was clinging to the headboard. "I'll be happy to provide anytime." He set himself up over her, slipping in while she dug her fingernails into his backside to urge him along while he moved. "If that's acceptable."

"Fuck, Sherlock," she cried, crashing from her first orgasm now to her second along with him.

They lay side by side on his bed, focusing on their breathing while sleep began to take them.

"You know, that's the most romantic thing you've said to me," Molly teased, rolling over to use his shoulder as a pillow. "An offer of unlimited oral."

He chuckled, his eyes closed. She heard his breathing change, and pushed some of his dark, curly hair off of his forehead. For all the tragedy of the past two days, she would be hard pressed to exchange them if it meant she would not be in this man's bed.

It was Molly's mobile phone that woke them early the next morning. She answered, and as she had expected, it was her supervisor.

"I know about the papers, Dr- What?"

"What's that?" Sherlock said sharply, reacting to her changing in tone.

She listened for a moment, said a faint goodbye, and then hung up.

"There was a cat found on the autopsy table this morning in my lab. It had been opened with a Y-incision. They ran the chips, and it was Toby. _Who would kill my cat?_ "

Sherlock was typing rapidly to Mycroft, updating him as Molly spoke.

"Do you want to go down there and see him?" he asked gently.

"They've already cremated the body. The police took photos and samples, and are checking the security cameras. I can pick him up when I'm in next."

She sat in the bed, too stunned to put her mobile down. He pried it from her hand, and was about to once again try to comfort her, when there was a sharp knock on the flat door. _Mycroft._

"That was fast," Sherlock said after he'd hurriedly dressed, ushering him in.

"I'm afraid I come with an awkward confession. Is Doctor Hooper decent?"

"Yes, Mr Holmes, she said, emerging from the bedroom with the blue dressing gown.

Mycroft glanced over both of them, and suppressed a combination of disdain and unacknowledged jealousy. _Like rabbits._

 _"_ It appears I have a problem in my, uh- _household_ ," he began slowly, refusing to sit. Molly began a pot of tea, but stopped at turning on the kettle. Sherlock guided her away from the kitchen to his chair and went to finish preparations while he listened.

"Go on," he said, plugging it into the outlet and hitting the switch.

"One of my employees was entrusted with a task, a fairly straightforward task, that I assigned as their first assignment." _Here it comes._ "I saw that you and Miss Hooper;"

"Doctor Hooper," Sherlock corrected, spooning sugar.

" _Doctor_ Hooper, had the potential to soon become romantic partners, and I asked them to test your mettle. Harry you a bit, Doctor."

Molly was growing pale, and Sherlock was pouring cream from the carton into the tray at large, missing the tiny pitcher.

"My agent over did it, I'm afraid. She staged a series of incidence designed to tax your body, your security, and your relationship. She's gone a bit rogue."

"Rogue?" Spat Sherlock, cream dripping from his hand, the carton crumpled.

"Try fucking insane," finished Molly. She stood up, five feet of shaking rage. "She killed my cat! She burned down my flat! My photos of my family, my childhood treasures. I can't get any of those back!"

"Your anger is justified," said Mycroft, who was fairly certain Molly would not physically harm him, but was concerned about Sherlock. "Needless to say my department will attempt to make amends, including a settlement to provide you with accommodations and everything you will need to re-establish-"

"She'll have a home here, Mycroft, and there better be a settlement for her," Sherlock growled, "now I want to know, is this over? Is Molly Hooper safe?"

"I believe to the best of my knowledge that any danger or harmful circumstances have already been put in place," he prevaricated.

"Do you mean that there's something we've missed? Something that Molly hasn't encountered yet?" Sherlock stalked over to his brother and picked him up by his shirt front. "What else?"

"We missed the _O,"_ Molly said softly, balling her fists. "An _M_ pendant, the _L_ fire, the _L_ tabloid _._ The _Y_ in MOLLY was Toby's incision. Do you know what it was, Mr Holmes?"

Mycroft was shamefully close to blushing, even dangling as he was from Sherlock's grip.

"I believe from debriefing my agent that she set the _O_ up far in advance, to come in effect at the right time, but she wouldn't tell us precisely what she tampered with."

"You can go now, _brother_ ," Sherlock said, dragging the smaller man to the door. "If you or any of your people come near Molly again it will be me they will be answering to."

Mycroft recognized the slightly psychotic expression on Sherlock's face. In that moment, he was a man capable of taking the life of another. _Murderous._

"No, Sherlock," Molly said gently, surprising them both. She placed her hands on Sherlock's, her soft touch making him release his brother. Mycroft fell to the ground hard.

"He set this in motion, but he did it to protect you. However wrong this went, or his agent went, he wanted to make sure I was enough for you if we were start a relationship."

"You're generous, Doctor Hooper."

"Have I passed your test, Mr Holmes, should Sherlock ever wish to pursue a romantic partnership with me?"

"Wish to pursue?" Sherlock asked tightly, his brow still furrowed in anger. "What do you think I've been doing?"

"I didn't want to speak for you," she said, a touch shy.

"Make no mistake, you are being pursued."

Nearly a month later, Molly and Sherlock stood side by side in the lab, anxiously waiting for the most important test result of their lives. The second line on the plastic stick turned pink.

"Motherfucker," Molly breathed.

"It turns out I am," Sherlock said faintly.

"So we were right, the _O_ was my birth control."


End file.
